


Cafecito, with Love

by keraunoscopia



Series: Eat Your Heart Out [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-24
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2019-01-22 12:47:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12481916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keraunoscopia/pseuds/keraunoscopia
Summary: Food doesn't mean much to Rafael Barba, but coffee does.





	Cafecito, with Love

Cafecito, with love. 

Food doesn’t mean much to Rafael Barba. It’s a means to an ends, sustenance. Probably because he grew up an only child of an essentially single working mother, and food was always eaten hastily en route to wherever they were going to be late to. And as much as he loved spending Friday nights at his abuela’s apartment, chatting loudly in Spanish over Ropa Vieja and arroz moros, all he really cared about was playing dominos and drinking café cubanos. As an adult, it really isn’t a second thought. He has preferences of course, he’s always hungry, but still, quality never seems to matter as much as quantity. 

The more intense his case load is, and the later he stays at the office, the more and more he relies upon the vending machine on the second floor. Pretzels, chips, coffee, pretty much the three main food groups for the Cuban ADA. But really, if he’s being honest with himself, he goes without eating far too often to be healthy. Coffee is the alpha and the omega. He starts his day with the swill left in the bottom of his coffee cup, explicitly reserved to prepare himself to make coffee in the morning. He always starts off the same way though, puts the moka pot on his stove, filled with his favorite, Café Bustelo. He pours a few drops of coffee into his mug, filled with several tablespoons of sugar, and whisks the way his grandmother always did, until the sugar and coffee mixture is frothy and thick, and then he adds the rest of the coffee to his mug. He savors it every morning, whether or not he has to be at the office urgently. He knows that the rest of the day is going to be filled with that Maxwell House sludge, or the battery acid only available at the station, which makes this first, fresh mug of café cubano that much more important. 

He eats it with buttered toast if he has time, but most often, on its own. And the more time he spends as the ADA for Manhattan SUV, the more his diet becomes entirely dependent on coffee. He has this realization when they’re in a middle of a case, and his stomach rumbles in the middle of a conference room, loud enough to startle the detective-slash-baby-lawyer sitting across the table peering over stacks of case files. Sonny doesn’t actually say anything, but he stands up and walks out of the room with this frustrating little smirk on his face, and returns moments later with a box full of anise and almond biscotti, dropping them unceremoniously on the table. Rafael bristles with reluctance at first, but his stomach growls again and he sighs resignedly, reaching out to take one of the biscotti. 

Its like nothing he’s ever tasted before. Rafael might have been raised in the church, but the biscotti, dipped into his Maxwell House sludge is the closest thing he’s had to a religious experience in any of his forty-four years. He’s pretty sure that Sonny can see the pleasure on his face, but he can’t even help himself, and he quickly scarfs down the whole thing. He eats a few more, definitely more than he should considering he’s eaten nothing but coffee in the past three days. They say nothing about it, Rafael is pretty certain that he’s instilled such a fear into the younger detective that he wouldn’t dare tease the ADA. Instead, they just return to the documents in front of them. 

After that holy revelation, Rafael begins to notice the sweets and bakery treats left around the station, and he seems to find more and more excuses to come down to the station, just to see if there are any treats or snacks in the break room, or on Liv’s desk. He doesn’t even stop to think about where they come from, which particular bakery he is so infatuated with. He’s even more enthralled when the treats start appearing on Carmen’s desk, and its only then that he realizes Dominick Carisi is the food fairy, the zeppoli and cannoli and cookies all appeared unceremoniously with Sonny’s ever more frequent appearances in his office. Sometimes, Sonny even brings him coffee, or take out, and Rafael knows but doesn’t want to admit what’s going on. Sonny has realized that Rafael never eats anything, that he lives off of vending machine pretzels and stale coffee despite the fact that his suits each cost more than Sonny’s monthly salary. Sonny has realized this, and pities him.

A thought like that should given him a little more restraint when it comes to the confections, but it doesn’t. Rafael has never had a sweet tooth except when it comes to coffee, but now he can’t get enough, and he has to add the gym into his routine a few extra times a week when he realizes that his perfectly tailored suits are getting just a little bit more snug. Worth it of course, for the baked goods. 

Its nearly four months later when he finally thinks to ask- Liv of course, he wouldn’t dare indulge Carisi that much- where the baked goods come from. He knows that Sonny always drops them off, always leaves them in the break room at the station, sometimes even on Liv’s desk, but Rafael doesn’t like being dependent, and he’s perfectly capable of purchasing his own sweets, thank you very much. Liv laughs, a knowing smirk that reaches to her eyes, and Rafael can’t help but regret the question. 

“You didn’t know?” She laughs again, “Carisi’s quite the domestic, he makes them.” 

Oh. 

Well, fuck. 

Rafael groans, because now he knows he’s practically enslaved to the detective, dependent on him for the food that fills his soul in a way that nothing every really had before.

Its not long after that when Sonny invites him out for dinner, and Rafael fleetingly wonders if Liv had said anything to the detective about their conversation. He brushes it off though when he sees the look of surprise on Sonny’s face at his agreement. They waste no time in heading over to the Italian place Sonny recommends. Its cute inside, but a little tacky, and they sit in the farthest corner from the door, next to the fireplace. Rafael suspects that the waitress thinks this is a date, because there are plenty of other open tables, but this one is by far the most romantic. 

Sonny orders everything. Rafael knows that he has a flare for the dramatic, but its seriously not an understatement when the food shows up, barely fitting on the table. And Sonny insists that he try everything, “you’ve gotta,” he prods, holding out yet another plate to the ADA, and Rafael is pretty sure Sonny would have fed him right off his own fork if Rafael would have let him. The food is better than he expects though, even with Sonny’s endorsement, and far too quickly, he’s stuffed beyond belief.  
Of course, Sonny has to order dessert. Rafael resists the urge to roll his eyes but he seriously cannot fathom how such a skinny little thing could pack away as much food as he does, and then add dessert on top of it. But they get tiramisu and espresso. And Rafael doesn’t much care for black coffee usually, Cuban coffee is always paired with a sickening amount of sugar, but he acquiesces to Sonny’s insistence. 

After that day, Sonny shows up with food far more often. Emboldened, apparently. Rafael can’t bring himself to be that upset about it, not when he’s eating more consistently than he has since freshman year of undergrad. And Sonny’s company grows on him, anyway. They don’t always eat what Sonny brings, sometimes it’s a new restaurant that Sonny wants to try, or something else that Sonny has realized Rafael has never tasted. 

Rafael had never really had time for food before, and he’s not sure now if he’s making room for food, or making room for Sonny. 

Either way, they end up back at that Italian place where they shared their first meal together, and they’re talking about art, one of Rafael’s favorite subjects, aside from the law of course. Sonny asks him what his favorite painter is, and Rafael doesn’t like to brag, really, but sometimes his words just come out that way. “I have a Rembrandt,” he admits, a light flush spreading across his cheeks when he realizes how pompous it sounds. 

But Sonny doesn’t notice that, Sonny is just in awe, and there’s something about that look of reverence that tugs at Rafael. “Do you want to come back to my apartment? I can show you my collection.” It sounds like such a line Rafael is practically cringing, but Sonny nods with enthusiasm, and doesn’t even question when Rafael leaves a hundred on the table instead of waiting for the check. 

If it were anyone else, Rafael would think the silence on the cab ride over to his apartment would be awkward, but its not anyone, its Sonny. The doorman at his building, right across the street from Central Park greets them with a smile and a nod, “Mr. Barba,” he acknowledges, holding the door open for them. The building is beautiful in its own right, pre-war but clearly well maintained. They walk across the lobby, Italian marble floors to the elevator, and Rafael pulls his keys out of his briefcase, sliding them into the little slot to allow them to go all the way up to the top, to the penthouse. He doesn’t look over to Sonny, but he has a pretty good idea of what his expression looks like, wheels turning in his head trying to connect all these tidbits of information that Rafael has divulged over the past few months. 

Its why Rafael doesn’t have guests. Its why he elects to pay for a hotel for chance encounters in bars. He trusts Sonny, and he’s not really sure when he got to that point, but he does, but even still, he’s sure this is going to change how Sonny sees him. 

The elevator doors open on floor 28, right into his apartment. Condo, actually, but that word sounds more like it should be coming from some geriatric retiree from Florida, rather than the put together Manhattan ADA. “Come on in,” he gestures as he steps out of the elevator into the foyer. The same Carrera marble floors, their shoes click, and Rafael chances a glance up at Sonny’s face, wondering what he thinks. 

“Man you’ve been holdin’ out on us,” Sonny just laughs, and his smile is so broad that his eyes do that little wrinkle thing that always catches Rafael off guard, just for half a second. “How the heck do you afford this on an ADA salary?” It wasn’t a real question, really, Sonny would never be so tactless to try and pry into his life like that, but the insinuation is clear. The whole team knows that he grew up in the projects in the Bronx, and prosecutors are government employees, their salaries as much public record as the detectives. 

Rafael bite his lip. “It’s a bit of a long story, honestly,” he leads Sonny into the living room, and gestures to the sofa. The Rembrandt is hanging over the mantle, and he knows it won’t take long for Sonny to spot it, so he walks over to the corner cabinet, full of expensive liquor. “Would you like a drink?” He asks, pouring a glass of scotch for himself. 

“Whatever you’re having,” Sonny replies, shrugging out of his coat and sitting down on the couch. The décor is elegant, the furniture clearly expensive, but Sonny makes himself at home anyway, seemingly nonplussed. Rafael has to commend him for that. “I’m not in any rush to get home,” he shrugs his shoulders, “got time for a long story if you don’t mind telling it.” He won’t push, and Rafael appreciates that, but leaves the door open enough for the conversation to continue. Its impressive really, the self restraint, because Rafael knows exactly how strong Sonny’s curiosity is. 

“I didn’t always work in the DA’s office, you know,” that much anyone could have gathered. Rafael is in his forties, and clearly a more than competent attorney. He would have been around twenty-four or twenty-five when he graduated law school, and Sonny’s confident that Rafael would have been the Attorney General now if he had started in the DA’s office twenty years ago. 

“I kinda figured,” Sonny laughs as he takes the glass of Scotch that Rafael hands him. 

“I got an internship my 1L summer at Sullivan and Cromwell. Diversity initiatives, and such, I was the only 1L. They offered me a position after that. I practiced International Trade and Investment litigation after I passed the bar. I made partner after 4 years there, the youngest associate to make partner. I practiced there for almost thirteen years.” He shrugs his shoulders, taking a long drink of his scotch. His mind is already a little fuzzy from the red wine Sonny insisted on at dinner. 

“I mean, I know partners make the big bucks and whatnot, but still, this?” Sonny gestures wildly. “Maybe I don’t want to practice criminal law after all,” the comment is more to himself, and he chuckles. 

Rafael just shakes his head. “Not really, no.” He takes a deep breath. “I was twenty-eight, had been practicing just long enough to have my confidence in the courtroom. You may think I come off as pompous now, but I was worse then. One of my clients, he was this young guy, only twenty-four. His parents had died that year, and he had inherited the family business. Mind you, the family business was a several billion-dollar empire.” Rafael hesitates, not sure how far in depth to go with this story, really, but the alcohol is loosening his lips, and Sonny’s looking at him with this eager, curious look on his face. 

“I was assisting him on a bunch of issues he was dealing with, lawsuits he wasn’t prepared to handle. He didn’t really even know anything about the business, he’d just been a college kid before his parents died, one of those fuck up party kids, parents too loaded to care about consequences.” Rafael swallows hard. “We spent a lot of time together. He always managed to convince my senior partner that we needed to meet out for drinks, or at a restaurant to go over his case, instead of in the office. He always came up with excuses for me to hang back after the meetings were over, always bought another round.” Rafael purses his lips. He can’t exactly stop the story now, “after I won a particularly difficult case for him, he called me over to his house, said it was urgent, but when I got there, he just wanted to celebrate. I crossed the line though, and then just couldn’t go back. He was enthralling, so carefree, so different than anything else I was into. Back in the Bronx, everyone had the weight of the world on their shoulders, worrying about making ends meet, worried about what might happen if they walked home alone. And in Harvard, everyone was so worried about classes, so worried about grades, keeping up. He was just so… light. It was intoxicating,” Rafael polishes off the rest of his drink and walks back over to the shelf to pour himself another. 

“I knew he was into drugs, knew that he had a problem, a serious one, and I should have tried to do something about it…I found him in the tub, in a pool of vomit, it was already too late, but I called an ambulance, ran the water, tried to wake him up.” His breath catches in his throat, and he tries to swallow the lump at the memories, reemerging. “He was pronounced dead at the scene, overdose. It wasn’t until months later when I found out that it had been intentional, that he had changed his will before hand, left me everything.” 

Sonny cocks his head, unsure if that’s the end of the story. 

“When the executor told me, I immediately thought I’d donate it to charity. I was a kid from the Bronx, who had grown up in the projects, working at Sullivan and Cromwell, I already had more money than I could ever imagine needing. But he left explicit instructions, that I could sell the businesses, but I he didn’t want me to get rid of everything, that he couldn’t imagine anyone more deserving than me.” Rafael shakes his head. “It was a load of crap. I didn’t-don’t deserve any of it. I figured the least I could do was leave my practice at Sullivan. I had no need for the salary, or the partner bonuses, and I wanted to do something more meaningful with my life, so I ended up at the DA’s office.” 

The silence lingers between them, and Rafael can’t blame Sonny. What he just dumped on him, it was a lot. But Sonny’s still staring at him, brows furrowed, not with any sort of contempt, just like he’s trying to figure something out. And he finally opens his mouth, “you’re gay?” 

Rafael rolls his eyes with as much of a grimace as he can muster. “That’s what you picked up out of all that?” He wants to be mad, wants to be upset that after spilling out his soul for Sonny to see, he only manages that incredulous comment, but he can’t because Sonny’s not smiling but his eyes are, and he’s honestly grateful.

“I just,” Sonny stumbles over his words, worried for a moment that he’s caused offense. “I didn’t mean it like that I just didn’t know.”

“Bisexual, if we’re being technical,” Rafael shrugs. 

“Then I wasn’t misreading,”

What?

Rafael’s eyes meet Sonny’s, and he’s not sure what he sees there, but its intense, unyielding, and his stomach churns uncomfortably unsettled. 

When Sonny speaks again, his voice is lower, husky, practically sinful. “I want to kiss you,” he says. He’s been with SVU too long to close the gap between them without some sort of affirmation. 

Rafael though, doesn’t have the same reservation. His movements are slow though, calculated and deliberate. His hand curls around the base of Sonny’s neck, pads of his fingers grazing over flushed skin. He can hear Sonny’s breath catch, can feel his pulse quicken under his thumb. He’s overwhelmed, the musk of Sonny’s cologne, and the heavy scent of the work day mixing in an almost intoxicating perfume. The moment stands still, and Rafael would think time was frozen if not for the almost ragged rise and fall of Sonny’s chest. 

“Rafi,” the voice is almost pleading, Rafael feels himself completely come undone, and he finally pulls Sonny forward into a kiss. 

When Sonny wakes the next morning in an tangle of black silk sheets, he’s uncomfortably alone, the sun barely peeking through the dark curtains. He walks out into the grand apartment in only an undershirt and boxer briefs, looking for Rafael. The kitchen, the last place to check, is also empty, but Sonny spots a notecard on the marble countertops, next to a steaming hot cup of coffee. He takes a sip, lifting the notecard to read it. The coffee is sweet, sweeter than he expects from Rafael, café cubano. 

Food doesn’t mean much to Rafael Barba, but coffee does.


End file.
